Mutually Beneficial
by perpetually-prototyping
Summary: Alisha's always been a little too stubborn, a little too selfless and recklessly eager to put others before herself. At least tonight she's in good company. Mikleo/Alisha.


"Back? What do you mean they're back?"

"Just like it sounds, Princess. Those purified areas ain't stayin' purified."

With a troubled frown Alisha sets her hands on the tabletop, mulling over the news. "What of Camlann?"

"Sealed," Edna reports. "No one's been in or out other than us."

"Good." Alisha's shoulders relax a little at that, but she quickly glances around the group. "Have you determined the cause?"

"Not yet." Rose leans forward in her seat, her heels tapping the patio to some rhythm. "But it's safe to say there's a connection. It's no coincidence that malevolence that thick has popped up in the same places more than once."

"Indeed," Lailah agrees. "At first glance, such a series of events seems orchestrated, but we can't say anything for certain just yet."

"I see." As busy as Alisha's been recently, it's often easy to forget that the same horrors she once witnessed daily still run amok in the world. It's largely thanks to Rose's efforts that Hyland has seen so few problems of the spiritual variety of late, but they certainly haven't ceased. "What can I do to help?"

"Redirect traffic away from the western roads. Don't send soldiers to investigate any rumors you hear," Rose tells her. "This is beyond what normal humans can handle."

"We've decided it's best for one of us to stay in the area," Mikleo adds. "We can purify at a further distance from Lailah now, so it's feasible that it would only take one person to manage the land from here to Elysia. Temporarily, anyway."

Alisha catches what he doesn't say: operating so far from Lailah is possible because of Sorey. Even she has felt it, as low as her resonance naturally is—his boon, his blessing, his earth-wide power and final gift to the world. Two years prior, it gave her the ability to see and hear seraphim without assistance.

She nods. "I'm glad to hear it. If you'll have me, I'll lend you my strength, as well."

Rose waves away the remark as she climbs to her feet. "You'll be more useful in the city. A last line of defense in the worst-case scenario, since you're one of the few who can actually see this kind of danger coming."

"Yes, but…"

"I'm inclined to agree," says Lailah apologetically. "We don't doubt your strength or your conviction, Alisha, but there's a reason these malevolent spots are so stubborn. Without the squire's pact, you would be putting yourself in grave danger by coming along."

Alisha's posture sags slightly. She knows they speak the truth, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

Beside her, Zaveid reclines against the side of her manor and rubs at his chin thoughtfully. "Y'know, that may not be _entirely_ true. 'Specially with Sorey's little buff in place."

"We've tried it," Rose reminds him. "My domain still doesn't go that far, so the pact wouldn't—"

"I ain't talkin' about Shepherds and squires. I'm talkin' about seraphim sharin' _their_ domains."

Lailah and Edna are the only ones who don't look at him.

"You can do that?" Alisha and Rose wonder simultaneously.

"If the human's resonance is strong enough. And if she's seein' us regularly now, I'd say our little Alisha could—"

"That really isn't an option," Lailah cuts in quickly. Her smile's a bit too bright as she steps in front of Zaveid, as if to tune him out from the rest of the group. "Shepherds and squires have experimented through the centuries, but the squire's pact is the safest and most surefire method, so it _really_ isn't worth running any risks—"

"What risk?" Zaveid leans around her, unnecessarily close. "Sounds pretty safe to m—_ow!_"

"Shut up," says Edna coolly, suddenly appearing beside him. Her parasol taps the porch in an agitated rhythm.

"Shouldn't you say that _before_ you conk me with that thing? _Sheesh—_"

"Lailah. Edna." Alisha rises from her seat, trading serious looks with them both. "Is what Zaveid says true? Is there a way to boost my resonance?"

Edna says nothing; Lailah gives a troubled hum as she looks away, lacing and unlacing her fingers absently. "It isn't affecting your resonance," she explains slowly, "as much as allowing you to access a seraph's domain. In… other words, you would temporarily share his powers of purification."

Rose tilts her head. "Huh. Seriously?"

"But there's a cost," Mikleo guesses.

Lailah fidgets. "Mmm… yes and no."

Alisha frowns again. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing other than your dignity," Edna comments flatly. "Especially if this old man here is the volunteer."

"Hey, now, no need to be jealous." Zaveid grins as Alisha looks between each of the older seraphim.

"Please," she implores, "tell me what this method is. If you deem it unsafe, I'll hear you out. But if there's a plausible way for me to help, I want to do so."

Zaveid resumes his place against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. "Don't know why you two are makin' such a big deal out of it. Alisha's a grown woman. Even her pure little heart can take this kind of talk."

Edna looks tempted to smack him again, but she only closes her eyes with a sigh and shifts her weight. "Lailah?"

The fire seraph hums once more, a disgruntled sound. "But it's such a… _primitive_ way of doing things," she mumbles.

Alisha steps forward. "Lailah. Please."

Her lips twisting, Lailah tosses a dirty look over her shoulder at Zaveid, and then heaves a quiet little sigh. "...Sharing in a seraph's domain requires the human and seraph to be… bound." Her gaze stays on her hands. "Closely enough that their resonances overlap, which results in the seraph's domain becoming the dominant one, and thus the one in effect."

"So… as in when a human serves as a vessel?" Alisha wonders.

Zaveid chuckles. "Well, in a manner of speaking…"

Lailah ignores him. "Not exactly. The method in question refers to something more… physical."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Sharing one's body isn't physical?" Alisha muses, genuinely puzzled. Zaveid actually laughs now.

"Just say it, Lailah. Unless Mickey has a clue."

"I have _no_ idea what any of you are talking about."

Lailah speaks so quickly that she's barely discernible. "Itrequiresthehumanandseraphtohave—relations. Of an… intimate sort."

Silence falls across the patio.

"She's saying the two have to have sex," Edna clarifies, in case there was any doubt. Alisha's and Mikleo's startled reactions confirm that there was.

"W-_What?_"

"Are you serious? _Zaveid!_"

"What? What? All I did was put it out there. You're welcome, by the way."

"You—!"

Alisha's silent as they go back and forth, her face burning. That was the very last thing she would have expected.

Lailah quickly steps forward, placing a cool hand over hers and offering a reassuring smile. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Alisha. Don't worry. Of course we don't expect you to even consider such a thing."

Alisha offers an embarrassed smile in return, which fades as soon as Lailah looks away.

"Aaanyway," Rose interjects, unperturbed by the chaos, "back to square one. We need to get going. Mikleo, you still volunteering to stay behind?"

"Gladly," he says shortly, eyeing Zaveid with disdain.

"Eh. Fine. _Buuut_ if you ever want that change of pace, Princess, just know I'll gladly—"

"_Just go,_" Mikleo barks.

* * *

That night, Mikleo doesn't sleep. Alisha gave him one of her guest bedrooms, but other than removing his coat and circlet and settling into bed atop the covers, he makes no attempt at rest.

The Celestial Record sits closed beside him—a new copy, obtained just over a year ago. Despite the familiar text of which he knows most by heart, the tome is almost strange to him with its unmarked, perfectly straight pages and pristine cover. The version that he knows, well-worn and well-loved and covered front to back with notes in a distinct, messy handwriting, now lies in a timeless slumber miles and miles away with the one who didn't part with it even at the end of everything.

Mikleo didn't really want or need one, not yet anyway, but he asked Rose to buy it for him on impulse nonetheless. He can count on one hand the number of times he's opened it since, but he keeps it with him all the same.

But his thoughts are with Alisha tonight, not Sorey. Following Rose's departure, he went to the affected area they discussed. It went well for the most part; he dispatched plenty of smaller hellions, although he failed to locate the source of the malevolence. He'll search more tomorrow, but in the meantime he hasn't failed to notice how distant and quiet Alisha's been since this morning.

She hides it well, but there's no mistaking it: she's pained by what she considers her own uselessness. As someone who once felt that very same frustration, Mikleo sympathizes, but in this case there really _isn't_ anything to be done about it.

Well, nothing acceptable, anyway.

He closes his eyes with an annoyed grunt and drapes his arm over his face. What was Zaveid _thinking,_ saying something like that? Perhaps he meant it as a joke, but it was a cruel one. Now Alisha has to deal with the weight of knowing that there _is_ something she could do to help—something she shouldn't be pressured into for _any_ reason, as far as Mikleo is concerned. Neither does he doubt that she's been stewing over it all day.

He sits up with a frown. He should say something to her. He doesn't think she would actually go along with it—not unless the stakes were much higher and the group was that desperate for extra hands—but all the same, she might need to hear some reassurance. To know she isn't awful for refusing to pay that price.

His mind set, Mikleo makes straight for the door without delay, opens it—and nearly runs straight into Alisha. She's standing in the doorway with one fist raised mid-knock, and looks more startled than surprised to see him.

"Mikleo!"

"Alisha? I was—just coming to see you, actually."

"Oh." She hesitates, looking awkward and a little lost in her own house for a moment before gathering her thoughts. "Oh! That's—good. Would it be alright to talk here?"

He studies her for a heartbeat, concerned about her demeanor, but she's looking past him. "...Of course."

They sit opposite at the small table, claiming the only two chairs. Alisha hasn't changed for the night, although her tunic and armor pieces have at least been removed. She seems slightly restless; her eyes glance here and there, everywhere but at Mikleo directly or the right side of the room, where the bed and biggest window are located.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" he asks, but she quickly shakes her head.

"It can wait. Please, you go first."

Slowly, Mikleo nods, but he takes a moment to get his thoughts and words together. Finally, he sets his arms on the table—more a distracted gesture than anything as he tries to ignore the heat creeping into his face—and with his eyes fixed on his hands, he begins, "Alisha, I hope you're not… worried about what Zaveid was saying."

In the corner of his eye he sees her tense slightly. He sighs inwardly. Stupid Zaveid.

"It was really insensitive of him to say that," he goes on, speaking a bit faster. "You're under no obligation to do anything more than what you're doing—which is more than enough. We've always needed someone… a representative on human society's side of things, who knows what we know. We… _I_ couldn't ask for anyone better," he admits, in a rare moment of humility. "You've helped us in more ways than you probably know—since I met you, even. So…" He forces his eyes up to meet hers. "Don't think you're any less valuable to Sorey's mission just because we can't always do the same things. We all have our roles, and no one's asking you to sacrifice any more than you already do."

He feels a bit embarrassed as he finishes. He didn't mean to ramble, or to sound so personal, but… that's probably what someone like Alisha needs. Without Sorey here to be forthright and honest in all his intentions, someone else needs to give her that.

Judging by her small, touched smile, the attempt was a good one. "...Thank you, Mikleo. That means a lot, truly." But the expression soon fades into a solemn look, and again she avoids his eyes. "However… I have been thinking. With the countries on such good terms now, even my uses as a politician are limited. Maintaining the peace does take a certain… finesse, publicly, and so there is only so much I can do at a time. In the meantime, I feel… idle."

She crosses her hands in her lap. Breathes in slow.

"...You mentioned Sorey's mission," she says quietly. "I told him in Camlann that I intend to do my best in order to live up to all the roles I have chosen—and that includes his squire. I want… to do what I can. To help in his stead... and to make sure he wakes. Even if…"

_Even if I won't be there to see it_.

Her shoulders tighten for a moment, and then relax again as she raises her head. The look she fixes on Mikleo is focused and determined. A politician, indeed.

"I've chosen my path in life. I believe it's my responsibility to do all that I can to pursue it, and that means seizing the opportunities that I'm given."

Mikleo feels his stomach twist. "Alisha—"

"I want to help. I want the _chance_ to help. I…" Her voice and her gaze soften. "...Sorey was willing to be blinded for my sake. For his mission." Her cheeks gain the lightest of pink tints. "In comparison, this is—"

"—_Not_ something you should do," he blurts. He feels inexplicably angry—not at her, not even at Zaveid anymore, but at the circumstances, at the duty of the Shepherd and all its unfairness, all over again. "Feeling obligated shouldn't—"

"It isn't obligation," she counters calmly. "It's duty."

"It's the same thing," he snaps. He's on his feet before he even realizes it, turning away to hide his grimace.

"Maybe so," he hears her muse. "All the same… it's a solution, and the only one I have."

"Sorey's powers are already having an effect on the world." He turns back to her, staring her down intently. Hopefully. "It's only a matter of time before your resonance is boosted enough that you can be Rose's squire permanently."

"But I still couldn't share her powers outside of her domain. And besides, there's no telling how long that would take—is there?"

Mikleo doesn't answer. Alisha offers him a smile. "It's alright. You don't need to worry about me."

He agrees with that much. She's a mature adult perfectly capable of looking after herself and making her own decisions.

He doesn't need to worry, but he does. He worries that she's making this choice in haste, that she'll regret it, not least of all as a woman of high standing, where things like this matter more than they might for others.

"It's not… just about worry," he says tightly. "You don't—" He isn't sure how to say it—not when the thought is too humiliating to say aloud and too infuriating to focus straight.

Why? Why does it anger him so much?

"You're really going to just… take Zaveid up on that?" He almost turns away again when he says it, embarrassed and angry, but something about the look in her eyes makes him pause. Alisha glances away, back at him again, and then down, her lips parting only to quickly close again. The color in her face touches her neck.

Only now does it strike him as odd that she came to his room in the middle of the night.

It isn't hard to figure out.

"If—If I must, then yes," she replies, "and that's fine." Her gaze rises as far as his chest and stays there. "But…" Again her lips move soundlessly, close, and then try again. "I, um… I know this is… horribly presumptuous of me… And I understand if you aren't—if you don't—"

Mikleo only hears about half those words between the heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he already knows where she's going. His face burning, he saves her the trouble:

"You're—asking _me_—" His disbelief comes out more skeptical than shocked. Alisha shifts uncomfortably in her seat, seeming to deflate at his tone.

"It's—It's perfectly alright to say no—"

"No, it's not—that—I mean—" Suddenly his crutch of anger and protectiveness is gone, leaving him stumbling and stammering under the weight of embarrassment and modesty. "I'm not—it's not that I _wouldn't_—I just—"

"You need not excuse yourself. I won't take offense," she assures him, keeping her shoulders straight. "It's only that… to be quite honest…" Her next pause is so long that he starts to think she won't finish the thought. Then, very quietly, "I wouldn't… mind... if it was you."

For an instant Mikleo feels dizzy, and then simply confused. Him? Why him? Just because they're closer friends?

He's sure she doesn't realize it, but she's put him in a terrible spot. Accept and help her to achieve the very thing he's cautioning against—or refuse, avoid responsibility, and spurn her away into someone else's willing arms, the very thought of which makes him want to punch the older seraph in his smug face.

And the worst part is that Mikleo knows exactly what she's going through. She's feeling angry at her own weakness, desperate to help someone she cares about. Maybe she'll be angry at him, too, if he refuses—and maybe he knows now how Sorey felt back then.

_This isn't the same,_ he tells himself heatedly. _I wasn't backed into a corner. I wasn't… sacrificing anything._

The pause goes on long enough.

"I'm sorry," Alisha says quickly. "This is all—very selfish of me. You don't have to answer now… or at all. I'll understand if…" She stands, again looking misplaced for a moment before starting to move around the table. Mikleo glances in her direction, although not at her fully.

He considers asking for time to think it over, but that's something of a lie in itself. He would only be stalling to try and make her change her mind, and it's clear hers is set. Maybe he could stop her for a few days, but this isn't an issue that will go away overnight. Even if Ladylake were suddenly secure, this isn't just about her country.

He wonders just how much the thought of Sorey has really influenced her decision. More than Hyland, maybe. Certainly more than himself.

Mikleo isn't angry at that. Disappointed, maybe, and something inside him stings a little.

Alisha moves past him without a glance or another word. He can only imagine how she must be feeling. He's irritated at her choice and the logic leading to it, but how much more is she? How nervous and disappointed must she be? This isn't something she _wants_. Even if Mikleo is her first choice, she didn't say _I _**_want_**_ it to be you_, only _I wouldn't mind._

Maybe he's being more selfish than he realized.

"Alisha."

He hears her footsteps pause. He pictures her turning back to look at him expectantly, maybe even hopefully, her hand still on the doorknob and the door ajar.

"...You're absolutely sure," he says slowly, "that you know what you want?"

He imagines her straightening up as she answers, her soft expression steady and her eyes resolute. "I do."

He turns around and finds her waiting. Always waiting.

He crosses the room after her. He reaches past her, over her shoulder, to shut the door again. His eyes are on the back of his hand.

"So do I."

The heat in her face burns a little hotter. She looks away and he manages to look at her, noting the darting of her eyes and the way her soft lips are pressed tightly together. "Mikleo… you don't have to decide right away—"

"If your conviction isn't changing, neither is mine." He backs away, avoiding her gaze once again. That's the closest he'll come to being totally honest.

After a couple beats, Alisha nods lightly. "Thank you. Really. I…" A glance at his face, and then to the side. Her smile is small and shy. "I… really am selfish, but… I'm glad."

Again, he's not sure what to make of her words. Glad he's saved her the trouble? Glad he's more bearable than Zaveid?

"It—It's fine," he says quickly, feeling warm despite the cool temperature of the room. "Besides, it's… it's not like I'm… _opposed_—personally, I mean—I only..." There's no saving that comment, so he promptly shuts his mouth.

For a long moment they stand there, facing each other but at the same time not, embarrassment and uncertainty and a hundred questions hanging between them.

"Then…" Alisha begins finally, clearing her throat. "I suppose we… Is there—er—anything you…?" She drops her chin towards her chest, shoulders tight with humiliation. Taking pity on her, Mikleo tries his hand at breaking the slippery ice.

"I think it's something we just… try... I guess. Uh…" Maybe it would help if he wasn't standing six feet away from her. He moves closer, on the edge of arm's reach, and that seems to help. Alisha raises her head and closes more of the distance on her side, chancing only a glimpse at his face before her eyes shy away to his chest again. She breathes in deep, as if steeling herself, and then starts to reach up—for his face, his shoulders, he's not sure—but she stops halfway. Her lips are tight again, everything about her stiff and unsure but trying her hardest.

Again, Mikleo's moved for her sake. Despite himself, he takes her hands in his and finds them trembling. He looks at her, concerned, and she gives a smile that's far too casual in contrast.

"It's… silly, isn't it?" she says, eyes downcast. "Of all things, I'm nervous about…" She doesn't finish the thought, partly because he slips his arms around her and pulls her against him.

Mikleo isn't an affectionate person. Even as a kid, he never returned the playful hugs and headlocks that Sorey gave him; he's always been the type to show warmth through simpler actions. Sharing a sleeping space, trusting another to watch his back, revealing his sense of humor.

Nothing like this. But as relaxed as Alisha's been with Sorey—holding hands, trading casual touches—taking the initiative in such a manner is the only thing Mikleo can think of to try and comfort her. Goodness knows he can't get the sentiment out verbally.

She's strangely warm in that way all humans seem to be. Her body curves against his almost naturally, leaning into him after that first split-second of surprise. Her soft breaths are hot against his neck, quick at first, and then they slow.

He feels the tension melt out of her and it sends chills down his spine, a pleased sort of feeling that almost makes him content to stay like this.

Almost.

"It's… alright," he murmurs close to her ear. "I know how you feel." He pulls back to meet her gaze, his expression searching and serious despite the heat lingering in his face. "Don't force yourself. You can still change your mind."

She nods once, briskly, in understanding, her fingers clutching at his sides. "I know. But I'm certain. I just…" She smiles as she looks away. "You're doing me a favor, and I… I don't want this to be…" Her blush deepens, but she forces herself to finish in a small voice, "I… don't want to ruin it, so…"

He would smile at that if he wasn't so nervous himself. Instead he assures her, with a tenderness in his voice that he's very rarely used, "You won't."

His hands find hers again and this time he lifts one, bowing just enough to hold her gaze while he gives a light kiss across the backs of her fingers. Oddly, the gesture helps ground him a little; he's taken the first couple steps boldly, so the rest may not be as difficult as he thought.

Alisha breathes in sharply at the contact, her grip on his fingers tightening. "Mikleo…"

He isn't sure what to say, or if she even expects a response, so he only guides her hands back to his waist, as before, while his settle on her hips. She doesn't seem to mind him leading and he figures he's done alright so far, but as he contemplates the next step he suddenly feels uncertain all over again.

Should he kiss her? Or is that too personal, considering their reason for doing this in the first place? Should they go straight to undressing? If so, should he start with himself or with her? And with what? Or does she even expect him to do that much? Should he start leading her across the room or should he give her as much time as possible to quit in case she does change her mind—

His paralysis is broken by a warm touch on his back—beneath his shirt, skin-to-skin. His breath catches in surprise and Alisha watches him, intent and unsure, as her careful fingers glide back and forth in small, cautious motions. He leans into her a little more, accepting and encouraging, and her hands move up, caressing on their way to his shoulders and dragging his shirt along with them.

When she pauses there, simply holding him as they listen to one another's heightened breaths, Mikleo decides the next move is his—they'll alternate, if that's what she's comfortable with.

He steps back and releases her, and she carefully works his shirt up over his head, and then forward and down over his arms, past his hands, until it's off. He can't quite bring himself to meet her gaze as she studies him—first with her eyes, and then with her fingertips, her palms, lightly dragging and tracing along the lean muscle in his chest, and then back up to follow the curve of his collarbone to his shoulders and down his biceps.

It's dizzying, humbling, and a little nerve-wracking. What's she thinking as she looks him over like this? Is she thinking anything? Or is she just familiarizing herself, merely adjusting to this much before they go any further? Is she genuinely curious, or just trying to fill the silence?

Her careful touch leaves chills in his skin and pulsing warmth in his blood. As strange and new as it is, he quickly finds he doesn't mind it—nor would he mind if she keeps at it.

Her fingers glide down his arms to his hands, which she takes hold of as she smiles at him. Still shy, but a little more confident, a little more relaxed.

It's encouraging. Mikleo gives her fingers a gentle squeeze as he takes a deep, silent breath. He eases free of her grip, and then reaches up to work at pulling her hair free of her ribbon. He's diligently attentive, careful not to tug or pinch, and when it comes free and her hair tumbles down around her shoulders, thicker and softer than he would have guessed, he's equally tender in running his fingers through it. He brushes out a few loose tangles, and then massages the back of her neck in gentle strokes.

Her eyes drift closed with a soft sigh. She tilts her head back into his hands and again the question is there, to kiss her or not. He's still debating whether that's something he should just _do_ when Alisha straightens up again, looking him square in the eye, and for a second he's sure that's just what she's about to do—but then her chin drops again, and after a moment of building courage she takes his hands to guide him this time. She sets them just below her hips, curling his fingers under the edge of her tight black shirt.

He doesn't need to read her look to know what she wants—or what she's implying, anyway. He takes hold of her shirt as indicated, but takes his time before lifting it; when he does, he does so slowly, the whole time with his eyes on her face, until he's worked it off at last.

He glances over the skintight bodice that she's left in, his eyes drawn in particular to the several inches of smooth, bare stomach and the teasing line of lace that runs along the widest parts of her breasts. He looks away sharply out of modest reflex, but Alisha's palm is on his cheek and turning him back towards her, her smile coy. Again she takes his hand, this time placing it a little higher on her side, over her ribs. The bodice is thin and warm, hardly counting as a layer, and as Mikleo pulls her close and their chests touch he feels electricity in his veins, a sudden, fierce surge of _want_ that thinks even this little bit of cloth between them is too much. He curbs the urge and settles for running his hands over her back, over bodice and skin alike, marveling at how soft and delicate this trained knight feels.

It's Alisha's turn, but when she finally pulls back she takes his hand and steps around him—leading him towards his still-made bed. It's at this point that their choice _really_ hits home and Mikleo's breath stalls, his doubts racing back and his confidence wavering. He follows without objection, however, watching as she climbs in first to settle on her knees in the middle of it, and then following suit to sit beside her.

There's another moment of studying each other, of coming to terms with how far they've come and reflecting on how far they still have to go. Then Alisha moves again, reaching up to brush lightly at his bangs, to trace his cheekbone, his ear, and then to cup the back of his neck. In one smooth, patient motion she slings her leg over both of his to straddle his lap.

Her shorts are _thin_, he discovers, and the space between her thighs is the warmest part of her yet. As she runs her fingertips along his jaw, over his lips, down his throat, he's only aware of the sudden rush of feeling between his hips—and it doesn't take her long to notice, either. She sucks in a breath, her eyes widening and her movements ceasing, and then finally her blush flaring as she realizes what she's prompted.

Mikleo looks away, searching for words but finding none—and when he feels her weight lift, he's certain she's decided against this after all and she's going to retreat—

But then she settles down against him, on him, a second time, with a bit more direction and force. It sends a hot, jolting feeling of pleasure through him and it's so unexpected that a groan makes it past his lips without restraint. He bites his tongue a second too late, but Alisha's watching him with a look he's never seen before, on her or anyone else: curiosity, intrigue, but also something eager, something heated and focused and entranced.

And then she and her heat are suddenly gone as she backs away, sliding off the bed to stand up—and to slip out of her shorts. She watches him as she does, following his gaze as it takes in her state of undress, the very little that still stands between their skins. Her motions are a little slow, a little shaky as she rejoins him, settling again into his lap in a way that makes him wince, but not with pain.

His hands glide up her sides, eager to touch and feel, to get underneath that bodice and appreciate her curves fully. He's so busy with those thoughts that he hardly notices her palms on his chest, or how she's leaning into him—heavier, heavier, and then heavier still until he's reclining on his elbows and she's on top of him. She hides her face against his neck and at first he takes it for another moment of embarrassment, but then her lips touch his shoulder. A brush, a light kiss, and then a heavier one—and another to his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, and then she gradually moves up the side of his neck, all while he tries to keep his breathing steady.

She takes his face in her hands, but it's only to hover over him as she closes her eyes, her breath teasing his lips. When they open again, they search his gaze for a few beats; questioning, or perhaps searching, and whatever she sees there gives her the answer she needs.

Alisha keeps one hand on his chest—_Stay_—as she sits back on his thighs, and he nearly shivers when her fingers drag down over his stomach. Her thumbs hook into the band of his pants, and the first surprise is how quickly and boldly she pulls them, undershorts and all, down past his hips. Their breaths catch at the same time—his at how totally and abruptly exposed he is, hers as she takes in this new, unfamiliar part of him.

Her eyes flit briefly to his face, back down, and then she surprises him a second time: she reaches down between them and slips her delicate fingers around the most sensitive part of him.

Another noise escapes his throat. He's not sure whether it feels very wrong or very right—but it feels _good_ regardless, good in a way he's never felt. It sparks his curiosity into impatience, the burning desire to roll over and push her down and touch her—

And then her hand _moves_, slow and careful and light, her fingers running up and down the length experimentally, and his jaw clenches. Try as he might, there's no hiding his tension, his low moan, his fingers twisting hard in the blankets. She runs her thumb around the tip, presses gently, and his body responds with a shudder as he chokes down a sound he has no name for.

Then she lets go—but just as quickly she sits on his hips again. His response is automatic, grasping her sides and pushing up against her with a grunt to grind against her soft, warm thighs, the damp cloth in between. She gasps, but places her hands on his stomach and responds in kind, motion for motion, a little harder each time. The sight of her breasts firm against her bodice, which is more transparent than he realized, is the last thing he needs. His voice breaks in a soft cry as all that tension releases, and for a moment he's too dizzy with relief and satisfaction to care about how vulnerable he looks or the mess he's left on her skin.

He drops back on the bed, soaked with sweat and breathless. His shaking fingers grasp weakly at Alisha's knees, finding solidarity in her presence as his mind—and the room—continues to spin.

"I—I'm sorry," she whispers. He opens his eyes to find her chewing her lip, her own breath coming quickly as she stares down at him with intense interest. "If it was—too soon—I didn't mean to…"

His limbs and head feel light, but Mikleo pushes himself up to eye level. Leisurely, he brushes some hair from her face as he catches his breath. "Don't be," he says simply. He barely recognizes his own voice, deep and gruff and strained.

Alisha covers his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers. She gives a slow kiss to his palm, and then another, and then does the same to his fingertips. Despite his release, desire still burns inside him, still flares at every movement of her lips and slight shift of her weight. This has long since ceased to be about resonance or domains or anything else. He wants her, all of her, more badly than he ever has.

He curls a finger beneath her chin and gently turns her back to face him. There's no uncertainty, no overthinking things: he leans in and kisses her. He feels her breathe in sharply, but there's no objection, no refusal as his featherlight touch gently brushes and tugs, eager but asking, inexperienced but willing to learn. She takes his face in her hands and leans into the kiss, equally slow and cautious. Of everything thus far, this manages to feel the most intimate, the most trusting gesture she's given him.

Her hips roll against his and her fingers grip his jaw a little tighter. Mikleo catches the indication: he fastens an arm around her middle, pulling her body closer and her lips deeper, and in a quick motion rolls them both over to swap their positions. Their kiss doesn't break, but turns firmer, faster, messier as a hand slips under her bodice.

Alisha saves him the trouble, breaking away with a heavy sigh to work it off herself and suddenly she's lying bare beneath him, the soft curves of her chest rising and falling with each trembling breath. For a moment they're both still, panting and looking each other over in this new light. This time his gaze isn't shy, but his touch is; his hands stay planted against the bed on either side of her, until Alisha takes him by the wrist and leads him, again, to her side, but now there's nothing but skin against smooth skin.

He runs his touch down the dip of her waist to her hip—his thumb brushing briefly over the little bit of lace still between them—and back up again, curving onto her chest. His short nails drag lightly over her skin, following her ribs, and she squirms a little beneath him, either ticklish or impatient, but instantly stiffens as he cups her breast in his hand.

He's almost startled by how soft she is. Her skin gives easily beneath his curious pressure, a gentle roll of his fingers making her arch up against him with a pleased hum. Her hands are on his hips now, nails biting his skin—but as he gives her a light squeeze, her touch suddenly moves around behind him and squeezes back, _hard_. Mikleo jumps, nearly slipping in his surprise, and Alisha catches him off balance to pull him flat against her, arms and legs winding around him as she crushes her mouth against his.

He's not sure if her roughness or the unexpected touch of her tongue does it, but he's already firm between her legs again. He pushes against her with what little room he has, but that's not enough: still moving quickly, she lets go to reach down and start working off her underwear. He pulls back just long enough to help her and then they're entwined again in a heartbeat, both moaning into their kiss as their hips bump together clumsily, rubbing against one another almost desperately. It's somehow the most amazing and frustrating thing all at once—so much sensation, but still not enough.

It quickly becomes clear that he isn't going to find what he's looking for blindly, especially with how uncooperative his body is being in its current state of mad desire, so Mikleo reluctantly pulls himself free to lean back—and for the first time sees her as she is, completely bare in the soft lamplight. It takes away what breath he still has, not least of all because the look she's giving him is so warm and expectant. She trusts him completely.

It's a bit of an awkward situation, but in his defense he can't exactly _see_ what he's doing at this angle, and he knows enough about anatomy to not make any assumptions and too little to feel confident about guessing. After a moment of embarrassed deliberation, he glances at Alisha—still flushed, biting her lip, waiting—and clears his throat.

"I'm… Just—tell me when it's—when I find it," he stammers, and moves one hand between her thighs. As soon as his thumb touches her center, she suddenly arches up from the bed with a cry, startling him so badly that he jerks backwards—and misjudges the distance between his knees and the edge of the mattress.

He hits the floor with a yell of his own, angry and pained. In a heartbeat she's looking down at him worriedly, but he waves off her concern and drags himself back up, wincing, only stopping to pull off his pants the rest of the way.

A minute later they're settled more securely in the center of the bed, Alisha reclining against the pillows. Mikleo's more careful in his touch this time, letting her adjust to the feel of light, fleeting strokes before trying something firmer. She still reacts, still moans and gasps in a way that makes his pulse pound until it hurts, but she holds herself still as his touch roams and searches.

"There," she hisses, when his finger slips a little further than expected. "I think—but—" Her chest is heaving as she looks up at him through heavy lids. "D-Don't… stop yet… Just—a little longer—please…"

Without a word he obliges, returning to the spots he noted as particularly sensitive and rubbing, pressing, a little harder when her enthralled noises start to die down. Out of curiosity he returns to the place of interest, running his fingertip around the rim—she moans his name, making him ache in ways he never knew he could—and frowning thoughtfully as he tries to estimate the size of it, wondering if he can even fit.

He takes it a step further and presses two fingers against her, finding the space barely wide enough to accommodate that much. He pushes inward, just slightly, and Alisha's calves clamp down on his thighs hard enough to bruise. He immediately starts to withdraw, but then,

"Don'tstop—Mikleo—likethat—"

His fingers slip inside again, this time as far as they're able, and he would mistake her cry for one of pain in any other situation. But her hips move against him, asking for more as she pants, and he repeats the motion, each one easier and more pleasing than the last judging by her reactions.

He watches her, all of her, the damp strands of hair clinging to her neck and lips, the muscles clenching in her flat stomach, the goosebumps on her arms, her distant gaze, her white knuckles as she grasps her pillow. She's beautiful, pleasing to watch as his simple, attentive motions prompt such dramatic responses out of her, but at the same time it isn't enough. He wants to share in that ecstasy, to feel more than this building tension between his hips and this dizzying desire driving every touch.

His impatience wins and his hand withdraws—Alisha gives a low whimper of disappointment—and then he's leaning over her, panting as hard as she is, jaw clenching tight as his erection grazes the inside of her thigh.

"Alisha—" His voice is broken and strained but he's past caring. "Are you—_sure_—" Even now.

Comprehension returns to her eyes as they look over his face. Her hands are hot as they cup his jaw, and without preamble she pulls him down and kisses him. It's surprisingly chaste and gentle. Mikleo goes still and for a moment there's no ache, no uncertainty, no tangle of sweaty limbs, nothing to steal his attention away from her soft mouth and her clear answer.

When she falls back against the pillow again, it's with a smile. Not shy, not unsure, but warm and confident.

"Please," she whispers.

He kisses her back, at first with the same tenderness, but then deeper, hungrier, as she does the same. He starts to reach down between them, but she beats him to it, taking him between her fingers—smiling against his lips when he tenses at the touch—and guiding him into place. Their kiss ends with harsh breaths but he rests his forehead against hers, locking gazes unabashedly—and then he pushes forward, slowly, and her eyes flutter closed with a low moan.

Halfway into the motion, Alisha suddenly tenses, the hand on his back dragging nails over his skin. Her legs stay locked around his waist, her eyes still closed as she bites her bottom lip. "It's alright," she murmurs thickly when he pauses. "Keep going."

He does so, disregarding her tight expression—it _is_ pained now, there's no mistaking it—and pushing until he can't anymore, until she's taken him in completely and their hips are flush and their pulses race together as they both pause, panting and adjusting to this strange but pleasurable connection.

Mikleo waits. After a long pause and many heartbeats, her eyes open again with a quiet huff. She strokes his cheek, her smile dazed and tired but her eyes still alight with desire and energy. When she kisses him this time, it's to graze a single word across his lips.

"_Move."_

The first few take more focus than he would have guessed. She's still tight around him, and pulling all the way out would mean having to situate himself again. At first he only retreats halfway before pushing forward, and then as the motions become easier he goes further, finally finding a pace that, while not exactly smooth, works for them both.

Alisha meets each of his thrusts with an upward push, her head thrown back and her hands tight on his shoulders. He isn't rough, but as he matches her firm force he can't be called totally gentle, either. His mouth takes to her throat in bumbling, uncoordinated kisses, feeling her skin hum with her pleased sounds and murmurings of his name. He's hardly aware that he's doing much the same, moaning and calling as her soft, warm skin drags against him on all sides with every push and pull, each one accentuated by hitches in their rapid breathing.

He knew it was supposed to be a pleasurable experience, but he never imagined _this_—the fire in his blood, the disconnection between body and mind as the former moves almost on its own, the odd meeting point of satisfaction and frustration, the desperate want of more, the endless sensation of _not enough,_ how wonderfully and terribly beautiful Alisha looks underneath him, as captivated by him as he is by her.

Flakes of ice form on the comforter beneath his grasping fingertips, quickly melting against his hot skin only for the cycle to repeat. Such a minor loss of control would normally bother him, if just for the sake of pride; now he can't bring himself to care. Only Alisha has his attention, Alisha and her vulnerable cries and iron grip and enraptured shivers—and it's _him_ making her feel this way, no one else but him, and for a weak moment he's content with the selfish satisfaction that he's stolen her attention away from everything and everyone else and become the temporary center of her world, driving off all notions of purpose and duty and maybe even the one she's _really_ doing this for—

She goes over just moments before he does. Mikleo's only warning is her fingers suddenly gripping his hair, pulling and scratching, and then he feels her tighten around him as she cries out, her strong legs clinging to hold him close as she shakes. For the second time his body shudders with release, earning a weak, keening sound out of her as his warmth fills her—effectively completing their entire reason for being here tonight.

They stay as they are, foreheads touching as they ride out the last of their bodies' satisfied echoes. Even when they're gone, and there's only a low, warm buzz in his limbs as reminder of their efforts, Mikleo isn't quick to move. He lets Alisha hold him in place, the death-grip on his hair now eased into combing strokes, her legs slipping from their hold to tangle with his. Her sigh is a quiet, exhausted one.

When her grip finally loosens, he takes that as indication to retreat. He pulls out of her carefully, even that simple motion sending another light shock of pleasure through him, and hesitates only a moment before lying down beside her, keeping a respectful few inches between them. He isn't sure what her reaction will be now that they're in their right minds again; on his end, at least, modesty is starting to set back in, and he resists the impulse to get up and search for his pants.

He closes his eyes, pacing his slowing breaths. Only now is he aware of how sore his arms and thighs are in particular, although she also left some stinging marks on his back that he'll heal later. Or maybe he won't.

A couple minutes later, the mattress creaks and Mikleo looks to find that she's rolled over to face him. She isn't flush against his side, but she doesn't prevent their arms and legs from brushing, either. There's still a shade of pink high in her cheeks, but she looks relaxed, her smile small and warm as her tired eyes linger around his neck.

"That was…" Her gaze slides shyly to the side. Her voice is a little hoarse. "I… enjoyed our time together, Mikleo. Thank you."

He turns his stare back to the ceiling, his face warm. "It's… You don't have to… I could say the same," he manages, rubbing his arm absently. "I mean—I _will_ say it—thank you—but I meant… I wasn't the only one who… You were…"

Things were much easier when their mouths were preoccupied.

Alisha gives a mirthful little chuckle. "It's alright. I think I understand."

"Do you… ah… feel any different?" he wonders. Seeing her expression, he adds quickly, "Your—your resonance, I mean—if it worked, I thought maybe… you might…"

"Mm… not that I can tell. I suppose we'll see tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Suddenly Mikleo wonders what, exactly, he's supposed to do about tonight. It's his room, but it really belongs to her, so would it be more polite to leave and let her have it? Does she expect him to? Or is it more appropriate to let her leave first? Is it best to stay? Is he supposed to? He isn't in any rush to leave her side, but at the same time, overstaying his welcome might seem...

For all the times he's ragged on Sorey for being socially clueless, it seems Mikleo isn't much better in some situations.

As he's mulling that over, Alisha finds his hand and intertwines their fingers. In response to his curious glance, she leans over and kisses him.

He isn't expecting it. He assumed all forms of intimacy ended the moment he left her arms—there was a reason for this, after all, one of convenience rather than feelings—but the touch of her lips now is neither superficially brief nor an attempt to pull him into a second round. It's a single, slow, light kiss, done because she chooses to, maybe even wants to, not out of any predisposed obligation. She stays close when it ends, her eyes heavy as they look into his.

"I'm glad it was you," she breathes.

Once again, he's puzzled speechless—but this time he doesn't think too hard about it. He rolls over to face her and responds in kind, gripping her hand back as he kisses her with the same fond, willing tenderness.

They stay as they are for a while, in a light tangle with his chin in her hair, dozing on and off. There comes a point when they're both awake but content with silence, their hands wandering in simple touches. He's much bolder than he would have been just a few hours ago, stroking her jawline, her hipbone, caressing her thigh. The last of these prompts a quiet hum and Alisha moves closer, kissing his shoulder in time with the motions of his fingers. The last one goes up to his mouth, once again gentle and easy. It goes a little longer than the previous, however, and when they part Mikleo wonders if her heart's started to beat as fast as his.

There's no logical reason for them to go again. They've done what's required to share his domain. Anything beyond that would be for nothing other than pleasure.

Alisha rubs her hand over his chest, and when she meets his gaze again there's a question in hers, a kindling fire.

His touch slips down behind her knee, more of a suggestion than a tug, and she answers by hooking it over his hip. His kisses her with more intention, sucking gently on her lower lip before kissing her fully, deeply. He takes her into an embrace and starts to lean into her, nudging her onto her back, but her hands firmly catch his shoulders to stop him. Mikleo immediately goes still, a little bewildered and wondering if he misread her intentions after all—

But in a heartbeat she pushes him backwards instead, mounting his hips to straddle him in the same movement. He holds his breath as he readjusts to the feel of her, his blood already rushing in response, but Alisha isn't waiting. She leans forward on her hands, mirroring his earlier position; and when a push of her hips makes his lips part in a low gasp, she's there and kissing him again, open-mouthed and passionate. Their pulses race, their heats reignite, and they both welcome mad desire, this time with no hesitation.

There's no logical reason for it at all.

And they're both fine with that.


End file.
